Wet
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: Me being silly again. Carson/Hughes and a lot of rain. And sneezing later on.
1. Chapter 1

**Another daft idea. No particular time frame. Carson/Hughes all the way. Me being silly again.**

**1.**

The first rumblings of thunder caused her to quicken her pace considerably. She might have guessed that on the day she had agreed to go down to the village and pick up some items from the haberdashery for Miss O'Brien it would rain, especially as she hadn't troubled to take an umbrella. Her new speed, however, was useless; the first spots of rain dotted her forehead and she had to bite back a bitter and unrefined exclamation. She unceremoniously shoved the package under her coat and quickened her stride still further, almost running now. Then the heavens opened.

Once the downpour reached her, however, she found she had little humour for running. Although in her position, she certainly wasn't supposed to indulge in such absurd behaviour, she had to admit that she rather liked rain when it was properly heavy like this. Surrendering to the inconvenience of getting drenched, she slowed her pace right down, looking up towards the rapidly descending drops: they were so hard that they near on ricocheted off her face. It was a nice change after having been cooped up in that stuffy house for the winter months; tension that she hadn't even realised had built up in her suddenly seemed to be released and she had to fight back the urge to whoop.

**2.**

The raindrops hit the pane of his pantry window with vigour, causing him to look up momentarily from his paperwork. Rain always put him in a dull mood; even more so than having to be confined to his desk for an entire afternoon and he sighed heavily. This, he supposed, would mean that the housemaids would have to take the days bed linen off the washing lines, but of course Elsie would remember... except, Elsie was at the village. Hopefully she have stayed late otherwise she would be drenched on her return journey. Rather grateful for an excuse to leave the paperwork, he stood to go and find Anna or Gwen.

They were already outside, scooping bed sheets off the washing line when he arrived at the back door. He held it open as they dashed past him, clattering across the stones under the burden of numerous bedsheets.

"Isn't Mrs Hughes back yet?" he asked them, relieving Gwen her load so she could tip the water out of her shoe.

"No," Anna replied, "She's probably on her way back now."

"She'll catch her death!" Gwen observed, straightening.

Yes, Charles thought, he feared she probably would. Lost in his thought, Gwen took the bundle of newly soaked washing from his arms rather than waiting for him to pass it to her. The sudden lack of weight in his arms jerked him out of his reverie.

"You'd better put those on the lines in the scullery," he told them, "If there isn't enough space you'll have to ask Mrs Patmore if you can use the ones in the kitchen. In fact, I'll ask her; I doubt she'll be too pleased about great bed sheets flapping around while she's preparing the supper."

This said, the three of them proceeded- washing in tow- down the corridor and towards the kitchen. Before they reached it, however, their attentions were attracted by the sound of the back door opening and closing again loudly. Someone in loud and squelching shoes was following the course they had just taken, their breathing audible even at a considerable distance. Charles saw the two maids exchange a puzzled look and then peered round the corner to investigate for himself. Although, given that he knew who was out of the house that afternoon, it was really quite strange that the sight he saw surprised him, but nevertheless it did.

Elsie was drenched, there was no way of making it sound dignified, she was obviously soaked to the skin. Her wet hair clung to the side of her face and her skin shone pale with the cold and moisture. It was best not to go into describing the state of her attire, but as she shrugged off her coat he saw that the rain had soaked through and dampened her dress. But, though it defied the bounds of common sense, she did not seem at all disheartened by her state: her expression was arranged almost as if it had spent the last quarter of an hour smiling and her eyes were much brighter than he had ever seen them. Quite in contrast to the mood that rain seemed to awaken in him, it seemed to make her feel all the more alive.

"Mrs Hughes," Anna spoke, clearly realising that he himself did not intend to though he hoped she didn't realise why he didn't, "Are you all right?"

Elsie took off her hat with an unnatural energy, her joints ought to have been frozen after the weather she'd just been out in.

"Why shouldn't I be?" she enquired lightly, smoothing out her rather limp-looking headgear.

He wondered how to tell her why she shouldn't be without sounding rude.

"You're soaked, Elsie," he told her gently, forgetting for a moment that he didn't usually address her by her first name in front of the other members of staff.

Evidently immune to his concerned tones, she rolled her eyes at him as she headed towards the two maids, who were still standing there- watching agog- arms laden with sheets.

"Girls," she addressed them, "Get those sheets off to the scullery, they won't dry like that."

As she pointed, water droplets flew off the end of her finger. Although Charles clearly saw her watch them land in a line on the floor, she pretended not to notice. She turned back to him once the girls had gone.

"If you should need to speak me before dinner, I will be in my sitting room," she informed him and departed.

**3.**

He had known that she wouldn't react well, but it didn't stop him hurrying up to the airing cupboard on the first floor and finding the warmest blanket he could. He knocked on the door of her sitting room- not without trepidation- and received a call of admittance. He stood dumbly in the doorway, holding the blanket.

"What do you want, Charles?" she asked, her back to him as she closed the window to prevent the rain getting in.

Briefly, he wondered how she knew it was him without turning to look. He nodded to the blanket in his hands once she had.

"Put this on," he told her.

"Charles," she replied, her tone light but not without a hint of admonishment, "I'm not a little girl, I can look after myself."

"I know," he told her, "But grown women are just as likely to catch cold as little girls are when they go out and get themselves drenched."

"I'm almost dry now," she told him defensively.

"So that's why there's a watermark on your settee?"

Her face coloured a little but otherwise remained unmoved by his observation.

"I can take care of myself, Charles, thank you."

She really could be impossibly stubborn sometimes; he had often valued it when she was on his side, but when he had to come up against it he found himself going mad.

"_Please_ put it on?"

"No."

"For heaven's sake, woman!" he exclaimed, "Stop being so obtuse! Or are you trying to make me wrestle you into it?"

Realising what he had said, it was his turn to flush and she raised an eyebrow. She had obviously heard that wrongly too.

"You know what I mean," he countered hastily, "Just put the damned blanket on."

"No."

"For goodness sake, why ever not?"

She gave a split second consideration to the matter.

"At first I didn't realise I was cold. Now I have and I'm just being defiant as a matter of principle."

That was all the reason he needed to close the space between them, unfolding the blanket as he went, and wrap it tightly around her, hugging her into the wool as he did so.

**4.**

"Thank you, Charles, although you really didn't have to."

Lighting the fire he turned away from it and straightened up.

"Yes I did," he replied, "Or you would have frozen."

Getting her into the blanket had been the greatest hurdle; after that he had managed to sit her on the settee, get some tea down her and light her a fire with comparatively little difficulty. She smiled at him shyly over the top of the mug he had given her.

"Thank you," she repeated.

He was quiet at first, simply looking at her for a moment and then:

"Are you warm enough?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Have you got enough tea?" 

"Plenty."

"Do you need anything else?"

"Good grief man, I thought I told you stop fussing over me!"

Mildly aggravated while curled into a woollen ball of blanket and dark damp hair, she really looked rather adorable and he smiled at her despite her scolding. She rolled her eyes at him again, taking another sip of tea.

"It's nothing you wouldn't do for me," he reminded her.

"Probably true," she agreed, "Though it's rather presumptuous of you to say so."

He prepared to leave.

"Will you be at the servants' supper?" he enquired.

"I've been caught in a thunderstorm, not contracted the pestilence," she reminded him.

He nodded.

"I'll see you there, then."

"Oh, Charles?"

"Yes?" he turned at the door.

"If it's not too much trouble, could you bring me the shawl down from my room?"

Her room.

"Certainly," he replied, although conscious of the liberty he could be seen to be taking. But then again,she_ was _asking him to go and get it for her, "Where abouts is it?"

She thought for a moment then replied:

"On the chest of drawers. If it's not too much bother?"

He left reminding her that he had offered to fetch her anything that she needed. He ascended the stairs to the servants' rooms at a moderate pace. It was strange to find himself on the other side of the door and he made his way to her room and shut the door before anyone could see him. In terms of layout, he discovered, it was almost exactly the same as his was, except he had a desk rather than a chest of drawers. He spotted her red shawl perched beside her mirror and decided it was probably the one she was referring to. Picking it up, he checked that it was sufficiently thick for her; still conscious that she was likely to catch cold. Beside it was a bottle of perfume which toppled over as the shawl was lifted; but mercifully not broken. He righted it, casting his eye over the label as he did so: green tea and citrus, which was funny because for some reason he always associated the smell of lavender with Elsie. He turned, still vaguely considering the matter and returned to the stairs to give her the shawl.

**What do you think? Worth continuing? Please say yes, because I'm ill and would like to have a go at writing someone else ill, partly to make myself feel better and partly for... empathy. Please review!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you for the reviews so far!**

**1.**

The servants' hall seemed to him to be oddly disorganised as he arrived there the next day for his breakfast and he narrowed his eyes slightly, trying to perceive what was different. The maids were louder, for one, as was Mrs Patmore, as well as several chairs being occupied rather earlier than was usually expected. It occurred to him that the mood was almost that of a holiday. Then he realised and wondered that it should have escaped his attention even momentarily: Elsie was not there, most unusual; her often being more punctual than himself. Good Lord, he thought, if this was the state things deteriorated to when she was late for breakfast, thank heaven she took an evening off as infrequently as he did so himself.

Clearing his throat, the noise lulled- the rabble becoming more aware of his presence and rising from their seats. The almost the whole staff lining the table, he was unhappily aware of the empty gap at his right-hand side. He surveyed his colleagues.

"Now that we've all quietened down a little," he began, hoping that they would take the hint about their unmerited riotous attitude, "Has anyone seen Mrs Hughes this morning?"

They exchanged many glances amongst themselves and reached the collective conclusion that they had not.

"Not at all?" he asked again.

"No, Mr Carson," Anna replied on behalf of all of them, "None of us have seen her since supper time last night."

As they were the most likely of anyone to have seen her, he cast his eyes over the maids again and then to the lady's maid.

"What about you, Miss O'Brien?" 

He got the impression that the question jerked Miss O'Brien out of a period of not paying attention. She looked at him almost in confusion, but recovered her short manner soon enough.

"Why're you all looking at me?" she asked defensively, it was true that most of the servants' hall was now watching her and waiting for her response, "I 'aven't murdered her in her bed, if that's what you mean! Mind," she added, "It didn't sound like she've needed it: coughing like a maniac for most of the night, she was, I could hear her right across the corridor."

"How do you know it was her?" he asked, as usual Miss O'Brien was suspiciously well informed.

"Because when I got up in the night for a glass of water, I heard her through the door. It were her all right."

She seemed fairly confident of her accuracy and, irritating as it was to admit it, Sarah O'Brien was generally a reliable and inexhaustible source of household information; so he believed her. Instructing them to continue with their breakfast, he departed towards the sleeping quarters.

**2.**

He knocked on her door but entered even when he received no response. As he had expected, she was still in bed and apparently deeply asleep. Crossing cautiously to her bed side, he saw that she seemed to be sprawled out in the most disorganised fashion- most unlike her on principle- almost as if she had been up in the night and thrown herself back onto the mattress with little ceremony. He noted a thin of perspiration on her brow and gently placed his hand on her forehead; as he expected her temperature was sky high.

"Oh, Elsie," he murmured almost without thinking about it, a surge of pity momentarily filling him.

The impossible woman had managed, as Miss O'Brien had indicated, to make herself ill even in spite of his trying to prevent it. The light pressure of his hand on her forehead caused her to stir and she woke groggily.

"Charles," it came out croaky and it was clear from her face that she was surprised at the sight of him, "What the devil are you doing in here?"

He smiled fondly down at her.

"And what the devil are you doing still in bed?" he asked in reply.

She frowned for a moment in incomprehension, then seeming to register the lightness of the room asked:

"Why? What time is it?"

"Half past eight."

"Oh good god!"

She tried to sit up at great speed but his hand- which neither seemed to have noticed he hand left by her forehead- prevented her from doing so. Instead, seeming to have induced a headache in herself, she groaned and sank back down into her pillows, coughing heartily as she lay.

"You can't possibly work today," he declared firmly.

"Nonsense," she retorted, struggling to sit up again, "I've got to get up; her Ladyship-..."

"I went to see her Ladyship before I came up here," he informed her, "I described to her the state you were in yesterday, that you were coughing in the night and that you had slept in this morning and she very sympathetically said that you ought to stay in bed. We'll manage without you for today."

Even in a rather bleary-eyed state she still managed to raise a sceptical eyebrow.

"Will you now?" she asked tersely.

No, was his inward answer, if the hubbub downstairs was anything to go by.

"Yes," he insisted.

"I hope you didn't actually say I was in a "state" when you were talking to Her Ladyship," she remark sourly.

He made no reply other than shaking his head rather incredulously. Noticing how her feet were halfway out of bed and nudging them back onto the mattress with his knees; "Now go back to sleep. You don't look as if you got much last night."

Unable to contradict it and fully aware that feigning vanity and offence at the slur on her appearance she tried a different tac, not altogether submitting to lying down.

"Who told you I was coughing in the night?" she asked suspiciously, "I'm assuming that you haven't been checking on me on an hourly basis?"

"I have my sources," he replied.

"O'Brien?" she asked, "It must be, Thomas can't have heard me all the way from his room."

Her astuteness even when sniffing energetically was remarkable. He nodded as he grasped the bedclothes to pull them back over her, wondering if he would have to resort to pinning her to the mattress to ensure that she stayed there. In the midst of his reflection she renewed her attempts to get up- evidently he would.

"Please let me get up."

"Mrs Hughes," he addressed her firmly and formally hoping she would grasp his seriousness, "When was the last time you slept in?"

She thought a for moment but did not reply.

"Am I to take it, then," he asked, glad that she seemed to have proven him right, "That it has never happened before?"

She scowled but allowed him to fold the cover up to her chin.

"And stay there until this afternoon at the very earliest," he instructed to be given a further scowl in return, "I'll bring you something up at lunch in case you're hungry."

He took that he received no reply as good; at least she was no longer arguing back. As he turned to leave an odd light struck his eye that he hadn't previously noticed, as if something more than the curtains was obscuring the window. He turned back to look at it and was met with the sight of a very odd looking and unfamiliar garment, apparently unwrapped and arranged to hang in the fashion of washing on a line. His curiosity got the better of him.

"Elsie," he asked, pointing "What's that?"

A portion of her face appeared from inside the sheet and then followed the direction in which he was pointing. The fiendish look of delight on the visible section of her face made him rather anxious.

"That," she told him, her tone muffled but rather frank, "Is my corset. It got very damp yesterday and I had to leave it there overnight."

His mortification was hefty recompense for the submissiveness that he had managed to get out of her, and he had the feeling that that was exactly what she had intended as she turned over to face the wall without further ado.

**Please review if you have time!**


	3. Chapter 3

**1.**

After having calmly informed him that he was scrutinising her underclothes- regardless of whether or not she was in them at the time- she was quite surprised that she ever saw him again; that he visited her at least twice a day for the next three days was nothing less than extraordinary. Before tea time on the third evening of her being reluctantly bedridden, his knock on the door was quite was she had come to expect. She saw him smile as he saw that she was sitting up in bed.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, stepping into the room.

"Much better," she replied truthfully.

"You sound it."

She knew without him telling her that she did because she'd been able to answer him without coughing manically. Not waiting to be asked as he had on the previous two days, he sat in the armchair that had been positioned beside her bed.

"What've you been up to?" he asked, "I take it you haven't slept through today as well?"

She shook her head, smiling.

"I've been reading," she nodded towards the copy of Jane Eyre on the bedside table, "I'll thank her Ladyship for sending it up as soon as I'm up and about."

Not a day had gone by that she hadn't dropped some hint about being allowed to get out of bed, he noticed. He sympathised with how restless she must have felt despite being under the weather, but wished she would realise that she was being told to stay there for her own good. It had been highly considerate, he thought, for her Ladyship to send some of his Lordship's books along with her well wishes; it must have reassured her to know that their employers were understanding and not impatient for her to return before she was well enough. The rest of the staff were even almost managing without her now, having had two days practice. As if she could read his mind, her next was:

"How are you all getting on without me downstairs?"

He considered his response.

"Tolerably," he replied, but added, "But not as well as usual."

She smiled at her lap.

"I suppose you won't object to me getting up tomorrow, then?" she asked, willing to take full advantage of his answer.

"Only if you feel up to it."

The look she gave him in response was one of exasperation and he opened his mouth to defend himself but was suddenly seized by a rather exuberant coughing fit, not, it pained him to admit to himself, his first one today. Once he had recovered himself he saw that her expression had changed: eyebrows pointedly raised.

"I'm more up to it than you are by the sounds of it," she remarked lightly.

He shook his head, releasing another single cough.

"I'm perfectly all right," he insisted.

She didn't believe him at all, that much was clear.

"I suppose you're just exhausted from trying to keep my rabble in order," she mused, not without a sarcastic edge to her voice, "Have the girls been behaving themselves? Or have you had to have words with any of them?"

The dangerously amused tone in her voice told him who she she was probably referring to.

"Miss O'Brien has been on her best behaviour," he informed her ironically and received a contemptuous snort in response. "I rather got the impression that Mrs Patmore has rather enjoyed having the run of the store cupboard these few days."

"I'll bet she did," was her reply, "I shouldn't wonder if we found her plotting to poison me one of these days."

"She won't need to if you keep insisting on running around in the rain," he admonished.

She scowled mildly at that remark: he had a point and it was irritating. She began absent-mindedly fiddling with the bedclothes.

**2.**

In the middle of the night she was awoken by a loud noise; a dull banging. At first, still half asleep, she considered that it could just be a particularly irritating fragment of her dream and rested her head back on her pillow. However, it came again and when it did she realised that it wasn't just inside her head, but coming from just outside her door. Groaning slightly, she heaved her feet from under the covers and reached for her shawl, draped over the rail at the foot of her bed. Once in the corridor, the source of the noise transpired to be the door between the men's and the women's bedrooms: someone was wrapping on it with considerable urgency. She advanced to open it but was halted by the sound of another door opening behind her. Turning, she say Miss O'Brien, clad in her nightdress, hair in curling rags standing in her doorway wearing a disgruntled expression, her hands on her hips.

"What the bleedin' hell is going on out here?" asked the lady's maid, "Aren't any of us allowed a night's sleep in this place?"

As inclined as she was to bitterly confirm the latter question, something impudent in the maid's tone stopped her.

"I don't what's going on, Miss O'Brien," she responded relatively calmly, "Not being omniscient. I was, however, about to discover what is going on before you interrupted me and now I cannot as opening this door will mean exposing you in your immodest state to the man on the other side of this door. Kindly return to your room."

Though Miss O'Brien's nightdress was no more immodest that her own was, she hoped it made her reply was sufficiently withering or imperious- whichever was more likely to get the tiresome woman out of her hair. Evidently it was, Miss O'Brien turned back to her room, closing the door and muttering something that sounded suspiciously like "Bloomin' 'eck, she's back." Thinking that any reprimands for her audacity could wait until the morning, Elsie turned with a sigh to answer the door- which was still being incessantly knocked on. Rather to her surprise, it was William that she found on the other side, standing in his pyjamas and looking a little skittish.

"William?" she asked, "What's the matter?"

The lights were low but not so low that she couldn't see that his expression was rather worried.

"It's Mr Carson, Mrs Hughes."

"What's the matter?" she asked in alarm, stepping to his side of the door immediately.

The candle that William was carrying flickered a little as he spoke.

"He's coughing quite badly," he told her, "You can hear him through the wall, he sounds terrible. I don't think he's very well."

She lost no time, gesturing him to lead the way and following him. He indicated to the appropriate door and stood back, waiting for her to do whatever she saw fit. Straightening up a little, she raised her hand and knocked on the door. She certainly saw, or rather heard, what he meant about the coughing; it was more than audible from where she stood. She received no reply to her knock, but hadn't altogether expected to. Glancing at William, she considered her options. It would be by far most prudent to ask William to accompany her into the room, so as no one could say that she had crept into Charles' room in the dark with goodness knows what in mind, but something was stopping her. It would be cruel, she thought, cruel to Charles to allow William to see him in a state, even though she was sure the boy would behave courteously; he would say that it was undignified and be embarrassed. She turned to William.

"I'll come and get you if I need any thing," she told him.

He nodded, seeming to understand.

"Goodnight, Mrs Hughes."

"Goodnight William."

He returned to his own room and she allowed a beat to pass, hand on the door handle before opening it and entering swiftly. She was greeted by a tumult of coughing and a good deal of darkness after the light of the corridor.

"Charles?"

No response except more coughing. She crossed to stand at his beside so she could see his face. He sleeping fitfully, the blanket curled tightly round him and seemingly drenched in sweat. She left the room and returned to her own, pouring a glass of water from the jug that was still beside her bed, bringing it back through and placing it on the neighbouring chest of drawers. Tentatively, she reached to wake him. His brow was damp and he had a shocking temperature. It took a few moments before he stirred groggily, muttering incomprehensibly in his confusion.

"It's all right, it's just me," she told him gently, placing the glass of water in his hands.

He sat up slightly and drank what he could manage.

"What are you doing in here?" he asked, his voice- hoarse to the point where it was almost none existent- answering his own question.

"You're coughing fit to bring the house down," she told him, "You've had poor William out of his bed."

"And you," he pointed out as she tried to settle the pillows more comfortably beneath his head.

She decided to ignore that remark: it was probably her fault that he was ill in the first place.

"You can't sleep in those blankets," she told him firmly.

"Why ever not?" he asked puzzled.

"Because," she decided to dispense with any notion of being delicate, "It may have escaped your notice but you've near enough sweated through them and once your temperature falls you'll catch pneumonia."

"I think I already have it," he grumbled, but submitted to her arm wrapping around his shoulder and allowed himself to be helped into the chair in the corner.

She took his dressing gown down from the back of the door and wrapped it round his shoulders before hurrying towards the servants' airing cupboard at the end of the corridor and finding the required bed linen. She returned and laid the linen on the chest of drawers beside the water and started striping the old sheets off the bed. Once she had sorted it out she turned back to the corner. Charles had fallen back to sleep where he sat, his head lolling against the wall. She sighed in a mixture of her own exhaustion and exasperation but also in sympathy for him, and didn't hesitate in gently shaking him awake by placing her arm under his so she could lift him out of his chair. Half-awake they stumbled a little as they headed back towards the bed, him mumbling groggily almost into her ear- incomprehensibly at first, then:

"It's supposed to be _me _carrying you."

She pursed her lips once she realised what he had said in his delirium; now wasn't the time to be going down that track.

"Come on," she cajoled, "Into bed with you."

He didn't take much persuading and given his remark she could probably guess why. She pulled the bedclothes firmly over him. She had a feeling she would definitely be back at work tomorrow.

**Sorry it's taken so long, it's been a busy week. Also, incidentally, has anyone in the UK seen the Costume Drama signs on the stands in HMV have a picture of the Downton staff on? I got very very excited and, I'm ashamed to say, was seriously considering nicking one; but have settled for making myself an identical one on Picknik. Anyway, the usual applies; please review if you have the time! **


	4. Chapter 4

**1.**

His bout of sickness, it embarrassed him very much to say, lasted for slightly longer than hers had; adding insult to injury of his causing her to have to return to work earlier than she really should have. Despite her insisting that she didn't mind at all, he certainly did but there was very little he could do in his weakened state than submit to her mollycoddling. However, after five days in bed, innumerable tasks having to be delegated to footmen and much tea being consumed at his Lordship's expense, Elsie finally allowed him to get out of bed as long as he promised to keep the work that he did to a bare minimum.

"And don't let me catch you anywhere near that blasted wine cellar," she muttered as they descended the stairs together.

He raised his eyebrows playfully.

"I hope you don't mean to imply, Mrs Hughes," he replied in an attempt at haughty stinted formality, "That I intend to make myself ill again through improper consumption of drink."

She rolled her eyes in response and he smiled; he deserved it.

"Ridiculous man," she gave him a mock slap on the arm, "You'd deserve it as well after the week you've had. You work too hard when you're there; lifting all of that wine and worry yourself half to death when it comes to counting it. Get William and Mr Bates to do it."

"I'll see."

"It wasn't a suggestion."

Although she continued their bantering tone there was a firmness in her voice that told him her concern was serious and he appreciated it. They had driven each other half way to madness over the past fortnight, but- both having resisted the temptation to strangle each other- were all the friendlier for it. Then again: he supposed that was probably par for the course for people who practically spent two weeks living on top of each other. They reached the bottom of the stairs. Most of the rest of the staff seemed to be already up but were in various places round the house completing their pre-breakfast tasks. He had already had his breakfast brought to him on a tray.

"Now be off with you," she told him half-sternly, "Stay in your pantry as much as possible."

"Yes mother," he replied sarcastically.

"The cheek of it." 

He received another smack on the arm.

"You're sure you'll be all right?"

"Yes."

"You're sure you don't want some more tea?"

"Yes!"

Good grief, he thought, I can't have been _this _bad!

"You're sure you want to wear that tie all morning?"

"Why?"

She shrugged casually.

"There just doesn't seem much point if you're going to stay in your pantry most of the morning."

Ah, she was being testy. A roll of the eyes would deal with that.

"Suit yourself."

With that, she reached up and straightened the offending tie just a fraction although he could have sworn it was exactly vertical anyway. Not that he minded. She had to stand slightly on her tip-toes to reach and smiled as she returned to her usual height.

**2.**

After a morning of being obediently confined to his pantry he was glad of his visitor, even if she was the same visitor as he had seen three times a day for the past five days, especially as she bore a tray with a bowl of soup and a glass of water.

"I imagine you're sick of being cooped up in here," she said apologetically setting the tray before him and taking the seat opposite.

Understatement of the year. He nodded fervently. Her smile was sympathetic.

"We could walk down to the village this afternoon," she offered, "I imagine the fresh air would do you good. My mother used to swear by it." 

His nod was hearty as he dipped the bread into his soup. His appetite had just returned after five days of feeling nauseous at the thought of food and he found himself ravenous.

"Steady on," she remarked, "Or you might inhale the table cloth." 

But she was grinning.

"But do take your time," she told him, "Or you'll be crippled with indigestion on top of everything else." 

"Have you always been this fussy?" he wanted to know.

She gave the matter a moment's thought.

"Probably," was her conclusion.

They were silent for a few moments as he ate.

"Elsie?" he began, putting down his spoon.

"Yes?" she seemed to stir from the depths of her own contemplation.

She looked at him with her usual direct stare and what he had wanted to say suddenly seemed rather odd. Nevertheless he continued.

"I've never heard you mention your mother before."

He said it quite quietly but he was sure she heard. Her silence was quite disconcerting and he wondered if he had been foolish not to remain silent when he had first thought that he might be crossing a line. But then she spoke:

"No, I don't suppose you would have. I don't suppose I really know why I never mention her to anyone. I just can't stand it when you talk about someone and people nod along as if they knew them and really they've no idea about what they were like at all. Does that sound stupid?"

He shook his head.

"Not at all."

They were quiet for a few moments, then:

"Elsie?"

"Mm?"

"What was she like?"

She smiled a little at his asking.

"She was wonderful. Very witty, although she'd deny as much profusely if anyone said so. Tried to keep my sister and I in line when we were young girls and wasn't as successful as she'd liked to have been, but we loved her. Apparently I look very like her."

He smiled at the way the corners of her mouth perked and her eyes glinted slightly as she talked.

**3.**

Walking back from the village they heard the rumble of thunder over their heads and couldn't quite believe it. He quickened his pace but she didn't trouble to which made for an odd arrangement as she had been resting her arm on his. Even as the first droplets of rain spotted on her forehead she did not speed up: happy to anticipate another glorious downpour like the one she had recently witnessed.

"Are you trying to catch your death again?" he called turning back to her.

"No," she replied, "I'm waiting to feel alive."

The reply was so simple that it stirred something deep inside him. Something that shouldn't be stirred while his immediate priority was getting them out of an impending rainstorm.

"Come on," he ushered her on, "Otherwise you'll find me dragging you into bed again."

"Will I now?"

He could feel the drops getting heavier little by little. Her coy smile at his slip of the tongue wasn't helping.

*Gracious, Elsie!"

She could make him smile with the best of them, but by heaven, she knew how to vex him too. He would get her to go inside if it was the last thing- which it actually could be if he became ill again- he did. He took a step towards her, reaching out to take her arm again and lead her in. Then the heavens opened.

Having already reached out his arm towards her in was easy to grab her by the hand. Casting his gaze around for the nearest shelter he could see; he settled on a neighbouring tree and walked there as quickly as his legs would carry him. She had to run to keep up, unless he was very much mistake n, whooping at the force of the rain hitting her face: feeling, he could only suppose, alive. The tree stood a little way into a field and they slipped and slid a little as he hurried them towards it. It only seemed to increase her enjoyment as he felt her hand fasten a little more tightly around his to aid her balance. Once they reached it however, he felt her reluctance to pass into the dry- stubborn bloody mule that she was. His arm moved exuberantly as he all but flung her under the tree's umbrella-ish perimeter and she found herself backed up against the trunk of the tree in front of him.

He hadn't noticed that they were both out of breath until then, standing facing one another. Her soaking hair framed her exuberantly pale face as she heaved to breathe the cold air: eyes bright and fully alive. Maybe that was why he kissed her, there and then in broad daylight, under a tree in the rain. Freezing and drenched as they were, nothing was more bloody alive than them as his arms lifted her a little to make up for the difference in their height, sopping wet clothes pressing up against each other. If they were breathless before they kissed, there wasn't a word for the way they were when they broke apart.

Waiting for the rain to die down under the tree proved far more enjoyable than it could have been.

**End. **

**Thank you so so much for the lovely reviews before now. Please review this part.**


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